


All The World's A Stage ... And One Man in His Time Plays Many Parts.

by i_am_zan



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Backstory, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:48:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_zan/pseuds/i_am_zan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several lives, lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Usual disclaimers apply, not for profit for fun - yes really ^_~  
> The other BIG disclaimer is that any true historians out there ... huge and humble apologies. Apologies too any grammarians out there, infringements there are aplenty - even though I've done my best to clean it up somewhat.
> 
> More at the end ...

~~~~~~~~~~  
“Who are you?” A voice asks. 

“The one who will succeed the Bookman” the reply is silent within his heart.

We are the wind, going everywhere, touching everything (everyone) and feeling nothing. We keep wandering. Eventually we leave no trace. 

~~~~~~~~~~  
With sighs, he is feeling older than he seems and what he seems is nothing what he really is. Too many years, too many wars and more names than … he is positively ancient. He smiles. Through days of wandering – a distant memory of home, bereft and in the briefest of griefs. As a Bookman it is all he allows himself. He’s been travelling the world since, for twenty-five years. Down from Manchu, Mongolia and across China. He distances himself from the event - in time as well as in geographical location, clinging onto his code and tenet with all his soul and nothing of a heart. It is all well and good to fall back to his records and assessing historical political climes for rumours of wars, but knows that part of it is him hiding behind duty. He does so easily enough, for one good with masks. He ends up staying several nights at one of the missions on the island. Fort Zeelandia, Formosa.

Many are the nights that the boy has felt alone. Not lonely, not really. The Sisters, pleased with his canny and quick mind, allowed him free run of the small library they have. Bilingual from the beginning, he spoke Portuguese, Mandarin and English. He taught himself to read everything he could get his hands on; including the old Latin tomes and those plays in German. He was only just six. He bristled with pride whenever he opened a book - just a tinge, because he was the only child allowed near the books. It was not much but he took what he could get. The Mission was all he knew in his life. No one, not even the sisters knew where he came from, who his parents were and hence not his parentage. His skin was fair enough to make him out somewhat European, the red mop, and green eye, but the paleness was just slightly off that he could be partly Asian too. Plus there was the question of the other eye. It was bad enough to be marked by the hair alone, _gwai lo_ , but an additional cursed eye. Doubly cursed he thought. No he would never admit to being lonely or unwanted. Even as the others laughed at him, poked fun about his eyes, or piled on the misery because it was easier if someone else suffered more than you, because here in the noisy, lonely place, everyone was unwanted.

The old man is speaking to the Sisters in attendance, to thank them and inform them that he must away as soon as his business is completed. A loud altercation amongst the children of the Orphanage interrupts their discourse though. The shouts, more like jeers - tear into the hush between the stone walls and echo loudly. Hurrying after the nuns into the courtyard, they catch sight of the ring of children surrounding the one lone child. He patiently watches the scene as it unfolds. Of course, children will pick on those who are different, and when your lot in life is already hard, it makes them feel better to make someone else hurt harder. With an appraising eye, the old man credits the boy that he stands ramrod straight, refusing to surrender, staring them all down - and is duly impressed. 

These children are evil and mean. His fists balled by his side posture stiffened in pride. What did they know? Nothing. They were nothing. All of them, otherwise they wouldn’t be here. Unwanted. Rejected. They dared to tease and mock because he was different. They were stupid because they could not comprehend they were ALL the same. They’re not worth his time, and definitely not his tears. Not his breath and he certainly was not going to waste his energy on them. 

The Sister in charge breaks it up, shoo-ing them all away to teatime. She beckons to the protagonist to check for signs of any physical hurt or injury and finds none. Then sends him off to the others, even though he protests at having to join them, he looks behind her staring curiously. With a start, she realises that the old man is still there and apologises. Most find homes or get apprenticed to merchants and guilds, but she whispers behind a hand,” They believe he is cursed see - that hair, the colouring and the eyes.” The man’s interest is piqued and requests for some moments with the boy. It is he now, wizened and strange that comes under scrutiny. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“How old are you boy?” The man asks in Mandarin Chinese  
“Five or coming to six,” he shrugged, “I don’t really know for sure.”  
“How long have you been here?”  
“‘S’long as I can remember.”  
“Can you read?”  
“Yes I can read.” The boy is affronted and indignant.  
“Chinese and English,” he hesitated momentarily, “I can speak Dutch and Portuguese too, and I’ve read the all the books here in in the mission, the history books, the bible and whatever else there is to read.” All this came out in a rush. This was someone new that spoke to him. He was going to squeeze everything he could from this interest. “Even,” almost shyly, “some Latin,” his eyes shone with pride though.  
“Hmmm…” The old man is thoughtful and contemplative, in his mind he is turning an idea over in his head.  
“Who taught you?”  
“The nuns at first,” the boy waved a hand dismissively. “But they do not have time for me always.” He shrugged, also dismissive, “the others keep away from me anyways. So I learnt more on my own.”  
“Do you have a name?”  
“Does ‘you boy’ count?” The boy asked sheepishly.  
The man chuckles with him.  
“You’re old, akin to a grandfather.” Forward, this boy was very forward. But he felt that he could be with this old one, even if he demanded respect from his very bones. Now it is the man who is affronted.  
“Why? Are you speaking to me?” He dared not sound hopeful at all as he worried at his right thumb and fingers behind his back.  
“Will you take me with you when you go? Do you need someone like me?” But he could not help himself.  
The man hesitates, does not reply and only narrows his eyes, looking down on the boy (because he can).  
“I won’t be afraid.” He swore, steadfast.

Bookman does not say, _yes you will be_ , because he knows. There are other certainties like the doubt and the misgivings in his mind. Wondering if he will be up to the path he is about to choose - for them both. Still, he feels he must take the chance that stands before him even if he fears; as he fears any failure, the fear that he might be dooming them both, that he might be failing them both.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The man remains a week longer, after more talks with the Sisters at the mission. They agree to let him take the boy into apprenticeship. If there are any records of either of them ever having them been at all, it might be here, but then again, there might not be. They stay long enough for the elder to supply both himself and his new charge with provisions and to make a start on some of the training he plans for the boy, the teachings he put away all those years ago. 

~~~~~~~

They both concluded that it would be a good idea that the boy covers his right eye.

The man supposes that it is fine, uncertain if the power within the will lie dormant forever or will awaken somewhere along the boy’s future. Whatever is to be, will be. He huffs to the world at large at both the gift and the curse. He decides then, as he knows after observing the world for more than half his life, that some things are so to keep balance. Like everything else, like the good and the bad, like the Lost Horse*.  
*塞翁失馬 (sai weng shi ma) - literally translates as "Old Sai loses a horse". Old Sai is the wise man in the fable. The expression is used to remind others to take life in stride because things aren't really as good (or bad) as they seem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“There are secret histories,” Bookman explains, “those parts buried within events that have transpired. Strange phenomena, the unnatural and that yet cannot be explained, not truly. These are recorded, handed down person to person and are excluded from historical fact. To understand the things that others are unaware of. To be a Bookman is to learn the code, not just the language, but their writing and their personal maxim. To be a Bookman is to hold nothing, the practice of non-attachment, especially to people. Bookmen, he stresses to the boy time, time and time again, have no need of a heart”.

It was a lot to take in and it sounded like the man was imparting something of weight to him, a concept of a duty; the notion of a duty to be fulfilled. That he was to take on the mantle of Bookman one day. But the old man had laughed then. Because he said that it would be in the far future, because he (the old man) was yet young and he (the apprentice) was barely beginning.  
So the old man taught him a lot of things that first week. Some he understood, the rest, he was still uncertain of. Especially - especially to the ‘Why?’ of it. It was all very interesting and in his curiousity, drank it all. It was no problem to retain everything he was told and it was no problem to learn new things. He was to improve upon his penmanship, other languages, how to keep a tally, how to record journals; the syntax of written histories; if no bias is to show through. A factual recorded ledger of history as it happened. The exciting, the new and the different to anything he’d ever known in his short life thus far. As he looked up on the elder fellow, he was more than ready to believe that six was a very short life so far. There was the promise travel. Everywhere. That would be wondrous and he was glad that he’d not been adopted or taken into care by someone else earlier. If he believed in such things then, he would have said that either Lady Luck smiled on him, or perhaps the Fates had it all planned. What his own thoughts were as pertained to the old man? Just that he was a little strange and wondered about the eyes. Later he learned that it was make-up, but he never found out why. His new guardian was fair, a little strict and not unkind. The boy assumed innocently, that that was parenting.  
~~~~~~~~~~~

We are the wind, wandering everywhere, eventually leaving no trace.

The boy looked out upon a field of gold, his white scarf billowed out and the seeds danced about in the wind, the idealist who wanted to understand the histories that no one knew about.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Bookman gives the boy his first name Hong Fa - and with that he initiates the boy to the life of Bookmen. He tells the young one that this will be what they do, the name changes, just a little further along the road of learning about the faces, the names they will pick up, the masks they have to switch between - just like _Bian Lian_ * he explains. 

*Bian Lian (simplified Chinese: 变脸; traditional Chinese: 變臉; pinyin: Biàn Liǎn; literally: "Face-Changing") The 300 year-old art of changing face masks swiftly in Sichuan opera.

They take a barge to the mainland and from there the man’s wanderings resume, this time with apprentice in tow. The boy adapts quickly, to ever changing climes and countries, crossing borders and boundaries. They travel overland, up rivers, across mountains and a lot of sea. The Bookman finds that his apprentice is a quick study, if a little prone to bouts of playfulness. He does not begrudge the boy those moments. After all he is still a child. The boy learns more foreign tongues and cannot say which, is one he can be native of, save that of the Bookman code and writing which also look like code. Columns and bars with whorls here and there. (eg. : ) written right to left. Bookman tells his new apprentice that this is a tribal language that does not – apparently - exist since about two centuries ago. The boy is finding out that it exists still, the language a sing song sound on his tongue and at the back of his throat. That he learns it and keeps practice at it because one day it will be him that will then pass along that knowledge.  
He has been given a name, but is told of its impermanence. Do not get attached. Do not get attached to the name. It is the start of a whole list of things that he cannot get attached to. It’s one of the things that he is not sure he grasped the why of it truly. Yet. Like that list, it is another ‘Why?’ He’s accepted that there will be many of these as well.  
Bookman also teaches that part of the skills set is not just the world of books, words, histories, the duty to record, ink on paper. He also informs him on herbal lore, the arts of medicine, needle acupuncture and martial arts. The old man squeezes those in between languages, political discourse and strategic analysis. He is content with the lad’s progress and ability to absorb, understand any material he teaches and his gift of amazing recall. (Only slightly jealous because his path to that perfect memory was not quite so easy.) 

Junior, with a considerable amount of glee, found the martial arts instruction a perfect outlet for his physical energies in learning how to kick, punch and dodge. They’re for survival purposes he’s told; that being able to get out in a pinch. He understood that. He agreed wholeheartedly with the philosophy of self-preservation. (He acceded that acupuncture is a thing left to his master, because he could not get comfortable with poking in too deeply into folk, with steel or otherwise. The mentor agreed with the boy on this. Bookman concurs that there might be some things that his apprentice might not excel at after all. )

Bookman trains Junior to people watch, to pick up nuances in body language and to determine the lay of the land in their conversations and discussions. He tells Junior to practice using the mantle of others to create different people with different personalities for himself. Junior discovers that acting is a skill he develops rather well, and enjoys putting in play. Initially it is a game. Just as many times as they wander, every small skirmish, every big battle, he acquires as many names. Different personae each with their own set of habits and mannerisms, cloaks them over him, donning a second skin then shrugging it off as a snake sheds its skin. Much as an actor switches roles.

Learning - thankfully was always easy for him, after all there was not much else he occupied himself with at the Orphanage. He’s learnt to watch people and put his observations to use on both himself and others. He’s learnt to hold his true nature from the people he has contact with. This is a difficult thing for a child (to begin with), however over the passage of time, he developed the knack for it and refined his techniques. Much as a child learns to manipulate his surroundings to get what they want. He discovered that it came easier if he thought of it as a game. He has always enjoyed games. Even with no one to play. Now he plays Go with Bookman and learned to pit his wits against him. Most times he’s won only three of five games.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They travel across China into Indochina. The Tây Sơn uprising is winding down into the last months, brother against brother. Bookman signs them up as medic and assistant. He is still small then, he goes by the names Dac Kien, Phuoc Huu and Sa ‘ang. As they wander post to post and observe the hostilities from both sides. Three days here, a week there, overnight someplace else. This is the template. As many names as there are places. Bookman is heartless. Throws him at the deep end and watches as the young heart rends to pieces. Over and again. This is part of the training. This makes the impermanence of anything and everything a bitter pill that is easier to swallow. 

When Junior is first exposed to battle, he is sickened. Horrified and saddened. The carnage is everywhere. It is an assault on his young mind, on all his senses. Even from the side-lines. There are so many wounded, and the maimed. The smell of gunpowder and blood is a strange alloy of saltpetre, copper and iron. He is left wondering how not to feel about any of the things he witnessed. He’s curled up behind an overturned wagon. With hands tight over his ears, eye shut, squeezed till it watered. The hand on his shoulder firmly held him in place, the presence behind himself unmoved. The child felt the eyes as they watch the unfolding battle in equal measure as they observed him. At length, long after the last explosion stopped ringing in his ears and he stopped rocking back and forth on his heels, still curled up, that hand - still on his shoulder - still unmoved. Like statues, they remained there until the boy turned his head to look at his master. His master rumbled low in throat, and his eyes shone dark. The master – is stone silent – as he gazed upon his new apprentice.

“Is it like this all the time?” The boy’s voice is a whispered croak. His throat dried from the smoke, fear and shock. Bookman’s answer is a slow exhalation of breath, hooded eyelids and the merest hint of a shrug. He’s discovered from the outset, many of his questions will go unanswered. 

Crossing back into China overland over mountain passes, it is here during the White Lotus Rebellion where there is far, far too much death for a protest against poverty and taxes. Death, pervasive everywhere and the inevitable happens. The boy is hit by a stray bullet. Bookman’s skill for survival ensures that the boy is safe from harm but perhaps the helter-skelter life takes a toll on the little boy. They have to lay low here while the boy recovers from a fever, clinging on to the old man as a drowning man would a lifeline. The man swears to himself he is just the master ensuring the survival of the boy, because he cannot afford the time, nor effort to look again for a new pupil. It IS nothing to do with attachment. That one week is the longest they remain anywhere. His name then is Le Yang.

When the boy was wounded by that stray bullet – even though it passed through cleanly and only into flesh – during his recovery he developed a high temperature. In delirium he faintly recalled pulling on master’s top-knot, clinging to it as if it were some kind of lifeline. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me. I promise to be a good Bookman.” He whimpered softly in his fevered sleep. O so terrified of being alone again.

He recovers and they move on. After which they travel through Sichuan and into Tibet, heading towards Lhasa. From there to Nepal, famous for their mountains, peace and tranquillity only to run smack bang into the great hand of the belligerent British East India Company in a nasty border dispute with the Ghurka.

More war, more battle, the guns pounded in his ears and the flashes seared behind his eye in a cacophony of after-images and sound. Even had he wanted to, he would never be able to erase the images. His training would not allow it. Then there are the cries – of pain. The people who cry out adamantly firm in their belief that theirs is the just cause. Who was there for them to say which the side of right, those with might on their side? He questioned his master… Why? WHY? Why do humans do this to each other. He’s observed wars and skirmishes and he will never understand completely, especially those that seem that they should be on the same side. But wars have been started because of family feuding, over gold, over a patch of ground. At the high cost of human life, the destruction just seemed pointless, wasteful. 

“It is not our place to wonder about boy.” His teacher once said. “We do not get involved. We note the factions, we note the dispute, we note the casualties, we note the outcomes of each strategy and manoeuvre. We record it all.”  
Having taken Asiatic names for some time now, Bi Ming, Fai and Cheng An, as well as such names as Anil and Narayan. The master deems that it is time for a change. It is time for a good old British name, more in keeping with those colonials that hold power at present. The British invasion is all about greed and gaining more wealth. It does not matter that these are not their lands they dispute over. These are not their people that they recruit for their armies, to fight against an enemy made up of fathers, brothers and sons of their recruits. 

Junior has always wondered how these names simply appeared out of nowhere, a rabbit pulled out of a magician’s hat. Lewis was his first English name. Whatever his personae in that moment, whatever quirks and foibles, he’s learnt already glibly to speak to folk and subliminally wheedle information out of them. Whether they’re casualty, or supply chain officers, or even (when he played his character and charm cards right) higher ups. No one took any notice of that child with the nonchalant air. By the time anyone’s thought about it, usually it is far too late and they are gone into the wind, no one any the wiser.

From the high Himalayas and the source of the Ganges they follow the great river all the way to the Bay of Bengal. He becomes Robbie, Jack, Tom, Perry and Ben in turn. 

India is hot and humid, hot and dry, hot even hotter. The sights and sounds fascinate the boy. It is a myriad of colours, textiles, spices, music and languages and the history. He is a sponge, soaking up and learning, it is a thirst that he can never truly slake. At the same time that he is feeling a little pride over how well his charge is doing, Bookman worries. There are whisperings and rumours. In times of war it is not unusual, for there to be talk about ghosts and hauntings. Soldiers can be a very superstitious lot. Still, one can never be too sure so he keeps more or a vigilant eye on the records and especially of the casualties, where they fall, how they are found and how many are missing. Missing-in-action is so very common, so no one pays these lists any real mind. A casualty is a statistic. It is a mere number and no more. But to the senior Bookman the deaths are a harbinger of something more sinister.

Ben has noticed a change in the Bookman’s behaviour recently. He seems worried. “Master? What is wrong?” He recalled that the man gave him a long sideways look then turned away with a shrug. “Nothing,” he said. Trusting in his mentor, Ben paid it no more mind. However the list he has in his head of questions unanswered grows. He could put it down to his still tender years and perhaps not knowing enough of the code to be trusted. Now more than ever he’s determined to learn the secret histories, to become the next Bookman. His curiosity is piqued and learning everything becomes a be all and end all of things. He would be a better Bookman-in-Training. He wondered then if any of his questions will ever be answered. 

Across India; there is a trail of devastation. The British lay siege to citadels and cities, as a strategy, they are long and arduous. Effective though. Men, women and children cry out, there is a delay in the rainy season, and the result is death, disease and tragedy upon tragedy. Bookman knows that tragedies can birth and give rise to more tragedy and wonders if some larger unseen hand is at work. Still he keeps it from Junior. The Mysore Wars, the Maratha Wars, and the Pindari War. Again in as many places and on as many sides as they are able to insinuate themselves into, Bookman continues his travels with Simeon, Arjit, Neerav and Vian.

Disillusionment with the human race made it easy to put up walls around his heart. He wrapped it up and placed it upon on a shelf in a far corner of his mind, from thence it sat. Dust collected over it, kept it hid. The shell he created, distanced himself from them all. The eye that could once see forever is now only for himself, he’s learnt to be sly with his tongue. He painted with clever words and cloaked the eye glassy to a mirrored surface. It reflected the sun and everything in the light, but showed nothing of who he was. He had been so many now. More than once, has he wondered as he played the game, if he could go mad with the lies of the lives he’s lived. Oft he’s chuckled. To himself. Even he with that detailed memory is hard put to recall that frightened boy that he left behind so long ago on Formosa in Zeeland Fort. Not because he could not, perhaps he did not want to. Not anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They sail from Madras to Ceylon in a fast dhow. To record the ongoing wars there. The Portuguese living on the island, are mostly missionaries and church administrative staff, cross-cultural marriages have long been in existence since the sixteen hundreds. The arrival of the Dutch shatters the harmonious peace, and a tussle breaks out between the Dutch East India Company and the British East India Company wanting to control the routes to the Spice Trade. The Anglo Dutch War claims the lives of many nationalities on all sides. The greed that pushes the war forward explodes in the kind of fireworks that leaves no one unscathed. Nowadays Bookman lets the boy choose his own names. Adao, Clemente, Daavi and Ferao.

He grew taller. Once he was of a height with his master, he now surpassed it, as gleeful as that made him Bookman merely smiled at him as he always did. The old man said that he’d not overtaken the top knot yet, so it did not count. They both knew the mere technicality was something they could laughingly squabble over. Through the years, they’ve learnt to be more comfortable with each other, working round each other and together. They fit in a hand-in-glove way and the boy’s happiness was only slightly marred because it was not a joy he could share with the older man. Of course he knew better than to mention it to his teacher, it was not allowed. No attachments. Again he was never sure if it was not ever entirely one-sided.

Bookman decides to go eastward once again, heading across the Sea of Bengal to Sumatra. The Anglo-Dutch wars continue in Batavia and Suriname. More skirmishes, more battles and more wars. It is an insane world where greed breeds tragedy and the warring factions cannot see beyond the ends of their noses, and the stage it is setting. It is here that Bookman crosses paths with an acquaintance from way back when. He clutches at himself (and his non-existent heart) and they walk on by each without acknowledging the other. Bookman wonders at coincidence corresponding to recording of the more unusual casualties. How it may tie-in alongside events pivotal in the general evolution of how the world moves forward - that it is not. No coincidence at all. Bookman hopes the boy, now taller than him does not notice, or will not ask. It is not the right time yet. No - the time is not yet. He is only ten. John, Frank, Edward, Henry, Andries, Diederik, Zaan, and Steffen. - Is progressing nicely. It is so easy to dismiss him as the elder’s assistant, with a diligence and natural love for books. Whilst not afraid to be around adults, constantly praising him for his mostly quietly and serious demeanour, he can be shy with other children. Just as well. A Bookman’s life is better, easier that way. This is very much agreeable and in-line with their coda.

With the constant journeying, as an apprentice he did not really get a chance to be with other children coupled with the memory of that awkward boy from the orphanage - he was quite happy that way. Besides it was more fun to sit and parse sense from parchment, from one language into another. Another of the games he loved to play. Old paper, heavy ink, maps and history, he worked on his penmanship; in Chinese Script, and Arabic, Sanskrit and Urdu. Some were harder than others, but he revelled in quiet joy with pride at the words that rolled right to left, top to bottom or whatever was dictated by the language required. He might be erased at some point and just fade away but these records will be left, his words will be read. It was thus his duty to make them as near perfect as he could make them. Thus he did not have time to be with other children. On the other hand, he observed Bookman; always at ease with others - that air and gravity with which he carried himself. However Steffen noted how his teacher reacted when they saw that man, in the uniform. Even at ten, well versed in theatre of war and who the actors were, the raiment and garb was from a faction he did not recognise. He’s unsure who was the more startled. They’d never avoided anyone before. Bookman taught that to blend in you had to be unafraid and unassuming. But this time it was almost as if he didn’t want to be seen. He could be certain of any uniform anywhere, their crests, rank and file, but this black, with the silver crest, was new to him added to the fact that not many of the armies he knew had very many female high ranking officers. He wanted to ask but for the way the old man behaved, Steffen thought it wise to leave that question - along with the many others he’d accumulated - for later.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sumatra is beautiful with equally beautiful people. It is a shame about the wars that ravage it and the people, statistics logged into a ledger - merely become ink on paper, historical details and data. Not just the Anglo Dutch war, but one war bleeds into another, into another - the Great Java War and the Padri War too.

Kersen discovered that the Dutch East Indies’ Batavia as almost idyllic. If he ignored the wars (and after the records were done), the sea brought cool breezes onto the land that chased away the heat and humidity. The Minangkabau houses were some of the most unusual he’d ever seen and although he was not supposed to, he happened upon coffee. He was too young for coffee of course, but the taste. He savoured it, the rich nuttiness, the low acidity, and the full bodied almost creaminess. He was probably far too young for coffee.

Bookman decides that it is time they make their way westward. Even he will be the first to admit that maybe a change of scenery will be good for both of them, He doubts that there will be any respite from their task. The whole world seems to be a theatre for war, every act, every scene being put into play and all the actors, merely puppets on strings, with several invisible pairs of hands pushing them this way and that, so as the wind they will weave and wend their way through the thespians.

Ji-ji informed him that they would head west! Bookman explained that there were records he wanted to look at that were housed in some of the great libraries of Europe. He was excited, but he knew that it would be a fair while, years even, before they got to Europe proper. Who knew, they might eventually get to the Americas. They’d be on the ocean. Being at sea would be nice for a change, or it could be just that they’d used overland routes so often recently that he’d forgotten that being at sea could be fun and did not dwell on the thought that it could be dangerous as well. Having just read Moby Dick, a voyage on the high seas, seemed a romantic notion, even if the characters in the book were not so fortunate. 

They set off from the coastal town of Painan, a trading post belonging to the Dutch East India Coy. A south westerly tide carries the tea Clipper out in good spirits and favourable headwind. The boy is laughing and grinning and for a moment the old man loses himself in the boy’s enjoyment. Then becoming serious, the paths that lie ahead will be hard and in spite of rigid tenets, may yet be full of heartache. The old man can pretend that he can avoid matters of the heart but he questions if he can mask himself so easily the second time around if history repeats itself. A fair wind takes them on their paths set in place from a time before, this time it will be history taking them along for the ride. The ship makes headway over the longitudinal line of the Equator.

For the first time since the Orphanage, he was simply Bookman Junior, the sailors called him Junior with a fondness. It was good for them to be in company of a child to spoil, that reminded them of their own left behind so far away, never knowing if they would ever see them again. That put them in mind of themselves with childhood’s dreams left far behind ever further along ago. They indulged the boy with a playful rendition of a Crossing-of-the-Line ceremony. The full one would have traumatised him. He took it for the fun it was supposed to be, waved with wild abandon at the Old Man standing on one of the upper decks. They were blessed with good weather and docked into Hyderabad two weeks later.  
Being in India again, the boy laughs more amid the swirl of spices and sound. It is a mind boggling mix of Hindi, Bengali, Malayalam and half a dozen dialects, the jangle of bangles and the swish of sateens. It is a heady mix of aural delights, taste and texture. The boy revels in it. The old man cautions the boy on enjoying it too much. It is time, time that the teaching takes a more serious turn. He needs to be stricter and perhaps even heavier handed. It isn’t that exposing the boy to war is not a grave enough method for instruction. A second time in as many months he spots that uniform again, this time a personage that he knows. There is no mistaking that hair. They pass each other by in the bazaar, acknowledgement in the most minute of gestures. If seeing that uniform again is not an indication that the smaller cogs have put in motion larger machinations Bookman is not sure what else is. The Bookmen will continue their task, he will step up his efforts to drill and prepare his disciple for the future.

They have arrived back in India. Fortune smiled upon their ship and brought them safe into harbour. Junior noticed that his teacher has become authoritarian and uncompromising. He reckoned it must be because he is getting older (well both of them) and Junior needs to learn (faster), to feel his responsibility more keenly and to be able to take up the Bookman mantle, code and all the harsh realities that task entailed whenever he is needed. Again he observed his master’s behaviour to the man in the black uniform with the silver crest. Again it seemed that the sense of urgency increased. 

The boy is now twelve. Dickie, then Peter and William. All too soon it is time that Bookman recounts the secret history of the Great Game, the Tournament of Shadows. He needs to better prepare his apprentice with knowledge of the Black Order and their exorcists; and to acquaint the boy with The Earl of Millennium, Noah and their Akuma. That behind these wars there might be a more dastardly scenario truly in play. Against the backdrop of the First Anglo-Afghan War – the boy learns that the world he knows about is much, much darker than what the eyes can see. He learns all this during the Siege of Qalat, through the Battle of Bolam Pass and in the aftermath of the Massacre of Gandamak Gorge. Where out of thousands - only the one managing to reach safety. Perhaps he is a survivor so that he may tell the tale to someone who will record it for posterity. There can be no more waiting. It is time.

Hank is called in to talk with his master. He could tell this was no ordinary sit-down-and-it’s-time-to-learn instruction. When it was over with the boy is shaken to his core. He recalled that first battle all those years ago, in Indochina. Flabbergasted that every battle, every fight since, can be connected to some great game. The scope of it all was immeasurable. There was no grasping it at all. After the talk he is told to spend time with that forsaken soul - for there was an eyewitness account to be recorded. It furnished their purpose as Bookmen, the story of it is lore, legend even. Tens of thousands (not just military, but women and children too), but that *survivor’s name does not appear in any records. It is true then that with the passage of history, names are just flighty things that simply faded away. It is not a long interview, both speaking in hushed tones when at the end he asked the broken man if it was worth it. There was no verbal acknowledgment just the dead and unseeing eyes. This - in and of itself was an answer of sorts. As he moved to take his leave, the man grabbed his wrists and pressed into his hands an unusual item. A gift, he supposed for listening, or something to unburden and assuage survivor’s guilt and relief. 

[*The lone survivor’s name actually does exist, a surgeon, William Brydon. Also called The Massacre of Elphinstone’s Army, in 2013 a writer for ‘The Economist’ called it the worst British Military disaster, only surpassed by the fall of Singapore almost a century later.]

He shows the curious artefact to Bookman. It is an intriguing thing to fall into their hands. It is a miniature of a fifteenth century Indo-Persian war hammer. It is beautiful. The shaft is smooth black lacquered wood with a metal core ending in a graceful diamond shaped finial above the hammerhead. The mallet head is smooth and cylindrical, with alternate black and white panelling. Its peculiarity lies in the Chinese characters hiding underneath ebony on both sides. It is a simple but elegant thing. Senior allows the boy to keep the gift, to accept it with good grace, and sees that his charge adds the item to his small pack of belongings. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Unbeknownst to his chaperon, after the testimonial was logged into the journals, he snuck away to look at the ravaged battleground. There was no one there. No sound, no echo and in that stillness, the stage devoid of its players. He almost apologised to those ghosts that surely lingered for intruding. There he stood, and in that moment he thought. Perhaps this is why, when he stood before the aftermath, humanity ripped from everything that had been. The slate bare and rubbed raw, naked and untilled. Could the land live again? Could *HE* start again? Is THIS why the Bookman code existed? It is thus easier to be detached and born anew. Distanced - the disconnected allowed for a clarity which cannot otherwise be achieved. He could almost, feel a tendril of the heartsickness tickle his chest and dry his throat, the beginnings of feeling someone else’s pain and suffering, colouring judgement and causing imbalance. Almost let it take root within him, but he banished it away, as he would rub at dirt upon his cheek.

He shivered, touched his hand to his heart. His newly acquired mallet lay in a pouch between his poncho and his shirt. The wood warmed by his heat and a reminder that humanity was destined to ruination again and over again. This was his duty. He was the successor to the Bookmen clan now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Persia, to Rome. Everywhere there is war, and like hounds they follow the battlefields. Until they come upon the longest ongoing war yet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Travelling further north and west they encounter the Ottoman-Persian War. Yet another border dispute, this time between the Persians and the Turks. The Battle of Erzurum overlays the more sinister plot for the Russians to take control of Greek interests in the region. But really it does not matter a whit who the players are (any more). It does not matter to Darian, or Farzan nor to Kia, because whatever the causality the result is casualty and more death. Bookman makes the decision not to tarry. No reason for lollygagging, on to the next stage, the next theatre of war.

The boy, thirteen has seen so much of war, death, destruction that it is all now mechanized recording, finding that un-involvement was so easy to maintain after all. Jaded and disillusioned with the human race, he agreed with Bookman’s hurry on to their next destination.

They travel into Constantinople (then, only the high magistrates of the Ottoman’s were allowed to call it Istanbul), and if there is a place on Earth that Bookman allows himself to feel a thrill, it is here. The echoes of history haunt the cobblestones of the pavement, and the winding streets of the old city. From pagan beginnings, a millennia of war and various rulers, then burgeoning to become a centre of trade, culture and education. It is a gateway from the west to the east, and vice versa. Its cloak of historical significance coats the very air here.

Sebastian caught on to the tingle of excitement his old pedagogue trembled with. He could not lie because he fair thrummed with it too. The Palace of Antiochos – the Hippodrome, the vast Imperial Library, which contained remnants of the Library of Alexandria. Bookman had recounted of his travels there (when he had been the apprentice). As Bookmen, they will be allowed to comb and research to their hearts’ contentment (and whatever their strangely haphazard schedule afforded them). Junior was thankful that here at least, there was no war (at the time) that might lead to the loss and extirpation of such a seat of learning. Bookman has deemed that they may spend a leisurely two weeks here before they set off again. If his elder has read the stages correctly, their next destination would be fruitful in the way only a Bookman might view it. 

Whilst there is a semblance of peace in Constantinople, it is the reverse for Adrianople, according to (other) historians of the time, the most contested spot on the globe. Here troops marshall, from Russia, Bulgaria and even Greece (who are on the opposing side yet the hostilities are kept at bay and peace hangs by a hair). The drums of war resonate readying the arena for the Russo-Turkish War - and there are a series of these the roots of which began as far back as 1672 in the advent of the Polish-Ottoman War - part of the more grandiose opera of the Great Eastern Crisis. They attach themselves to a messenger unit with a Russian unit, Nicolas, is useful as a runner, and picks up nuggets of information wherever he can and his memory serves them both well, adding volume to the journals amassed through their travels. They cross into Bulgaria, arriving at the capital Sofia and from there they travel to Kosovo by train. They finally reach Montenegro several months after making land in Constantinople. Here the Russians triumph over the Ottomans at the Battle of Grahovac. There is a horrific ‘mop-up’ to be done, and as soon as they finish with the report, they make for the seaport town of Antivari and sail the Adriatic to the Italian municipality of Bari. If it seems a headlong rush across Eastern Europe, it is. Bookman schools the boy Remus in the proper speech, manner and conduct for an audience with priests of higher office on the train from Bari to Rome via Naples.

The haste with which they travelled has gathered momentum, and the scenery changes speedily, a pack of cards shuffled by a croupier. If not for his immaculate, unwavering memory he would not have even noticed the conveyance. He is instructed in the ways of receiving an audience with high personages of the priesthood. The mantle of Remus that he took on for visiting Rome, is that of a serious study, of sombre demeanour and quiet observation. Remus is suited to the task perfectly. It is not the clergy that has him impressed, BUT (true to a Bookman’s nature) he is awed and humbled by the archaic Biblioteca Nazionale di Roma. The hallowed halls, thick with must and age, stone scripture, heavy parchment manuscripts and scrolls of ancient text. He is left to his own devices whilst Bookman undertook his own research in quiet meetings and other secret places in this magnificent edifice. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bookman gains audience with clergy that he is able to discuss his fears from their findings in the recent histories that they’ve been recording. What they speak of remains secret. Upon arrival in the Holy City, the sense of urgency dissipates and the pace of travel slows down somewhat. Bookman does not let up on intensifying the training, expanding the boy’s knowledge, developing further his powers of reasoning and judgement. It connects understanding to a deepening of thought. He further cements the fiat of the Bookmen that one does not interfere with the actors on the stage. He absolutely does not let up, drumming it into the boy, every chance they have. The participants of a war, any army, soldiers are merely ink on paper and to maintain distance and thus adherence to neutrality. To keep all accounts unbiased - in short, Bookmen have no need of a heart. Bookmen have no need of a heart. 

The boy had never thought of the learning as less than serious. He’d noticed lately however the tone and gravity which accompany the tutelage has multiplied threefold. It was not enough to be learned, he needed to be able to apply that knowledge. There was the indoctrination, which required him to start his days early in a meditative liturgical chant, “People are just ink on paper and Bookmen have no need for a heart”. He wondered if Bookman knew that meditation was not his strongest point (as with acupuncture previously). It’s just that with the expansion of thought, he could not help but sometimes, just sometimes think about the concept of ‘self’. Himself. He’d long ago accepted readily enough that he is a Bookman-in-training. He’d accepted readily enough his learned ability to masquerade with any permutation of habits, foibles and idiosyncrasies to be a multitude of personae. The question he had for himself was; were these things made up or part of himself? He had no doubts as to his discipline for distancing himself from others, but how far can he push himself away from who he is at his core. Because he knows - he’d begun to discover that along with the questions he’d never could ask, never dared ask were facets of his nature that may be deemed most un-Bookman-like - and knows that this is definitely part of him. And he’d better keep these damning thoughts under wraps. He’d learnt for some time now that there is a part of him that he wants for himself, to be kept separate from his Bookman life. If he’s been recording an unbiased history, should there not be a part of him that is true to himself too? He’s begun to realise that that child he was all those years ago - hasn’t actually changed that much.

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who are you?”  
“I am the Bookman’s successor.”  
“Why do you distance yourself from others?”  
“So I don’t become attached to others - ink on paper, eventually disappearing into the annals of history.”  
“Bookmen have no need of a heart.”  
“We go everywhere we are the wind.”  
~~~~~~~~~~~~

They journey from one seat of learning to another, Rome to Florence, via Arezzo on a train. Tuscany is sunkist country, balmy breezes and orange and pink hues. In the past it had been the wealthiest city of medieval times, birthplace of the Renaissance, the seat of political intrigue and religious revolutions. Erudition made full by the tableau on offer. There is much one can learn from the menage a Medici.

Realisation dawned upon Adamo, a history of war and disaster are the dark essentials of humanity - a proviso for the advancement of science, culture and art. Enlightened counterpoint to the tenebrous sky of a moonless, starless night. Disillusioned as he was, he cannot but feel saddened because that balance is tenuous. The scale could tip into either dominion. What then?

They board a horse-and-carriage bound for Genoa. The scene of a marvellously offensive siege by the French holding out against the Austrians, impasse breaking due to cunning negotiations and carefully worded treatise to avoid the inclusion of the word “capitulation’ thus neither side lose face. This war is almost fantasy for their annals. No casualties, with both sides agreeable to the seemingly unheard of idea of ‘minimum loss of life’. They record the brilliantly worded treatise for future, study, but wonder if anyone will actually learn from that experience. However, there is no time to mull over that idea as they continue onwards. They hie themselves to Cinque Terre, snuggly snaking the Italian Riviera on a train towards Marseille, France. Of whom their most famous citizen of the ancients - Pytheas, mathematician, astronomer and navigator - both Senior and Junior Bookmen take the occasion to educate themselves in his books and theorems. Marseille’s populace, decimated by the Black Death some two hundred years earlier, and more recently the Revolution, is now a thriving maritime military port once again gearing up for war.

Now in his teens, he is excited with the travels from Rome, through Italy, and France. The climate is clement, the food and ... other … young people his age. All at once intrigued but uncertain, he gladly maintained his distance. His own behaviour was somewhat of an eye-opener. He is used to holding up on his own with adults, authoritative figures, priests and soldiers but suddenly he was curious about others his age. (In contrast, he is quite kind to children, for the boy he was). So he watched them intently to learn how they interact, observed for different types, the subtle differences in nuance and body language. In the quiet spaces of his own time he practiced to better insinuate himself among them. He noted their laughter and the smiles, their ways of speech, polite as well as colloquial slurs. (Children who were soldiers already had a countenance and behaved differently to those not involved in the wars – there is something of sadness in the tragedy they have experienced). It was never truly important to be too different to who he was at his core, because adults tended to take him at face value. They only ever saw the messenger boy, the medical assistant, or attendant-scribe-in-training, Bookman Junior, whatever name he took. Now though it seemed important to these others that he was ‘true’ to ‘who’ he was. It confused him. Benoit was his name for this leg of the journey.

They continue the coastal train journey passing by Avignon, Montpellier, Beziers, and Perpignan in short order then Girona before finally pulling into Barcelona. There are a variety of uniforms surrounding them that the boy recognises. The trains and supply wagons are full with women and children that follow the armies. As if the soldiers are on holiday too. At the bustling station, they observe a band of men, English by their looks and speech, not the familiar red coats, but these men wear green. (Of the time, very few of the English regimental colours that isn’t red) The old man stays silent, he decides that they may stay here somewhere overnight before moving onwards again, he leaves the Georgie with strict instructions to stay with their belongings at the station and not get into trouble. The boy barely contains his small happiness at the brief respite from his master, even though his teacher clocks him one as a parting shot to behave. Lately Bookman has taken to hitting the boy somewhat painfully hard if he does anything untoward in his eyes. He reckons the boy is old enough to take things with pinch of salt. 

Georgie, is intrigued by the leader is determined to stay and watch him; that carriage and confidence. The men definitely looked up to him, mixed rabble that they were. He wondered if there might be behavioural patterns he could learn from them. Though they gave off an air of inattention to the general populace, his calculative mind saw that underneath that relaxed air, they were alert and ready for any trouble that might come their way. He was so intent on watching them that he did not notice the large hand that came down on his collar as he fair jumped out of his skin. 

~~~~~~~~~~

“Look ‘ere sir, we got us a spy I reckon.” The sergeant is Irish and strong, he is not a small child anymore after all. He struggled to get free as he was hauled, legs wriggling uselessly. He was thrown unceremoniously, to his knees in front of their leader.  
“A spy eh?” The tall blond squats down to get eye level with the boy. English, from somewhere North judging by the drawl.  
“N..nn..no. I’m waiting for someone to come back for me.”  
“Why are you watching us?”  
“It’s what I do.” He concluded that truth is the best path here. “When I’m bored of waiting,” not the whole truth though.  
“D’ya know who we are boy?” Irish asked.  
He made a pretense of scrutinising the uniforms closely, not that he needed, it’s a distinct colour with black leather facings and belts, “The black and the green, the finest colours ever seen” -  
“You’re chosen men, the 95th Rifles.”  
“You want ‘t watch someone kid, you’ve gotta be less conspicuous a’right.” Irish smacks him upside, “Now go on wi’ ya and stay outta of trouble.“  
He rubbed at his sore head in an effort to ease it, what was with these adults? He wished they’d stop hitting him on the head. Still, he’s learnt more than just advice on spying techniques from those soldiers. (If truth was told, he knew already really.) He hoped they will pull through whatever the world decided to throw at them

~~~~~~~~~~

After a day in Barcelona to take in the sights, Bookman talks to some British army officers, and gets them passage to Madrid with the supply train. It is crowded, and they meet up again with the green jackets from earlier. Bookman watches discreetly from heavy lidded eyes in feigned sleep as the boy makes conversation with the Major and his Sergeant. Occasionally one of the others will tease the boy. Make him blush and laugh. They are trying to get the boy to speak to the daughter of one of the cooks. They are singing something about kissing girls and making them cry, the fools! What do they think they’re doing encouraging his apprentice like that?

He’s being challenged he knows, and never one to back down, accepted it. Had he always been like this, he was not entirely sure. The girl was pretty, dark haired and sixteen. He is pushed in her direction and she’s heard them so she knows what’s going on. She follows the army because her mother does and knows what the men can be like, but the boy is an innocent - she can tell - so she humours him. When he approached she blushed for him, shyly looked at him from under long lashes and dark eyes. Innocent he may be but he reckoned that he can play the game for he hasn’t watched and read people all his life for nothing. Even though - he was nervous, ever so slightly. With the men watching, he gained his first chaste kiss on his cheek. Blushing furiously, he returned to the men who laugh at him raucously. 

“Give ‘over boys,” the Major told them. “Leave’ im be! Don’t corrupt the poor child.” For a bit of rough, the Major was actually quite gruffly caring. Although the boy is secretly affronted, there can only be a few months between him and their youngest member, Perkins. Between naps and idle conversation the hours flew by, and soon enough they arrived in Madrid.

It seems the army is heading the same way they are and they have to spend some more time with these unkempt soldiers who seem to pay no officer other than their own any mind. Bookman is actually reluctant to continue on with them but he does not wish to make any detours, so he suffers (because he is sure Georgie will not see it as sufferance) the inconvenience. The inconvenience is the disruption to the boy’s training. It is hard to teach subterfuge, whilst under the hawkeyed scrutiny of the 95th’s Major, despite any air of nonchalance and apparent indolence. They travel a ways together, this time with the battalion supply wagons. Taking up with one of the quartermaster’s horse-carriages, the boy bounces around in the back of one with barrels of food and helps himself to an apple with permission of course. In this way they travel through Toledo and Ciudad Real, before the route takes them through Cordoba finally arriving in Seville.

Thrilled to be travelling with his new friends, his enthusiasm isn’t curbed by being jostled around in the back of a horse and cart full of food stores and simply helped himself to the fruit availed to him. He’s amazed too at being allowed to keep his name. He knew that his master is unhappy about not being able to keep up with the tutelage whilst they’re in company. He hoped that being in Seville and gaining access to the more secret papers housed in the Archivo General de Indias, in spite of being muted in ostentation and simpler in design than the Biblioteca in Rome and no less important would dispel that grumpy air. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Major,”  
“Bookman,” the soldier and his teacher are equally gruff as they shake hands.  
“A pleasure to meet you.”  
“Likewise.” Neither giving anything away.  
“Take care of yourself.” In spite of circumstances the old man has a grudging respect for the man.  
“You too, and the boy.” He nods and jauntily salutes. “Be careful, he’s ain’t as tough as you both think he is.”  
Bookman simply tucks his hands into opposite sleeves and imperceptibly nods. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The men heading off to their war take their leave from the Bookmen. Misgivings bubble from inside him, only for the second time since the start of their travels together. He shakes his head, as if to physically clear cloudy and irrelevant thoughts. Rafael is waiting at the entrance to the archives ready to see what gems can be found in in the vast library.

Goodbyes were hard. They weren’t together for long but it was actually the longest time that he’d had a chance to spend with anyone, and he’d never made friends before. He squeezed his eye shut, and instead focused on meandering his way through manuscripts from days of yore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Stop wondering about them.” It is later in the evening and they’re in their quarters for the night. The boy is pensive, and seems to be looking inwardly far away. “You cannot hide your thoughts.”  
“It’s nothing.” Raphael sighed. “I know I should not.” The boy idly thought then, he might have to learn a deeper subterfuge, so that he isn’t transparent to the one person who can see through his artificers. He is sure he could manage that. He felt that Bookman will truly be proud of him then. Although of course, sadly, it wasn’t something he could crow about.  
“Yes no attachments remember.”  
“Right, siree, no attachments.” There was something in his chest that tumbled and tightened, he resolutely refrained from putting his hand to it. Yes think no more of them, they are soldiers, they will go to their war, they will most like die, at least some of them. He recalls that one lone survivor far away in his memory. People die in war. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their next stop is a little English village (believe it or not) in Huelva, there’s nothing there really except the English who run a mining company, but Bookman nevertheless wants to take a look. So they take what is perhaps the last civilian owned horse-and-cart not requisitioned by the Anglo-Spanish armies. The point of the village is that it is remote and tranquil, and might allow the boy to find his centre and regain his balance.

The boy is a little put out to say the least, but he knew from the outset what the aim of the little side quest for what it was. He was grateful actually. His master was right. He is determined to not let the Bookman down, determined not to let himself down. He’s also determined to see if he can fine tune his skill in fooling his master. They are stuck there until the cart that sends the mining company food and equipment arrive and they could get a ride out. So he took the opportunity to put in a bit of physical training as well. He took to running along the River Luxia everyday they were there. The memory of the Green Jackets remained sharp; their numbers, their unit, their destination, which side they’re on and the war they’re fighting. 

Eventually they get their ride, halfway out of Huelva they switch carts at Aljaraque and head towards the border with Portugal. They pass more coast with the sea is on their left, a constant companion for this part of their journey.  
For exercise, the boy ran alongside the cart, to let his legs stretch. He’s taller now. Past marshes and lonely houses, he waved to fishermen taking their boats out. Hair mussed up above his head, sometimes falling over his eye and the covered one. The man on the cart throws the boy a kerchief. For his hair, he is told. He smiled his thanks. They alighted at Ayamonte, which serves the ferry crossing between that municipality of Andalusia and Villa Real de Santo Antonio, Portugal.

The ferry crossing does not take long at all. From Santo Antonio it is an hour’s walk to the seaside town of Faro of the Algarve. A warm summer day, with the warm currents from the Mediterranean Sea crashing into low temperature waves from the Atlantic Ocean, creating giant whirling eddies with steam rising up from their centres. The sheer power of nature on show here gives them a boost in energy.

The boy is fascinated by the strength of the water and wonders what it would be like to be able to harness that energy. On impulse, he dropped his satchel, shrugged off his backpack and ran to the shoreline. He ignored the look of disapproval he felt directed into his back, if anything a small surge of rebellion spurred him on. The wind danced ocean spray into his face as he leapt about as he made the effort to keep his footwear dry and smiled (heartfelt smiles). A few deep breaths later he went back to where his guardian stood. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you.”  
“Hrrmph… for what …”  
“Everything… you know taking me with you”  
“Hmm..”  
“Thank you … I … just thank you.”  
The fall silent and continue their walk…  
“Who are you?”  
“The one who will succeed the Bookman.” The boy refrained from sighing quite easily.  
“We are the wind, we go everywhere.”  
Suddenly the man stops the boy with a hand on his shoulder. Quite a feat considering Junior is taller now. They are facing each other.  
“You do know that the non-attachment is for everyone.” The man is actually angry with himself, because he’s never actually voiced this out between them. In fact he assumes that the boy knows this, just as he knew it when it was just Bookman and HIS master (and as his previous apprentice knew). 

Junior spent some moments looking at the older man, then paused to look up to the sky and swept his gaze over the sea. Then once again cast his green eye back to his master, the loose strands of his hair waving in the wind. He then nodded once then twice. Bookman can feel a little pride, because that is not attachment. Of course it is not. 

“I am a Bookman-in- training.” Junior speaks to him in the Bookman tongue, “and we have no need for a heart, we that chronicle history.” Bookman allows the pride to fill his chest. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They walk to Faro in comfortable and familiar silence, master and student falling into a conformable fit. They speak quietly to each other as they pass the stone houses, cobbled streets and the old medieval cathedral. The sky is a bright, bright blue, the sunshine reflecting off the sea sprinkling the view in a shimmering glamour - a spell that neither dares to break. The space between one breath and the next breaks when they arrive at the train station in the town centre and Gramps taking charge again, gets seats on the next train to Lisbon. Jonas is a portrayal of serious and slightly cheeky mien and the master is approving.

On the train to Lisbon Jonas made the effort to mix a little more with others his own age. Words smoothly fell off his tongue that he needed to practice the languages. It came in smooth easy tones and he even tried on some flirtatious tricks he’d seen the Major use to good effect.

Lisbon is the oldest city in Western Europe, pre-dating London, Paris and Rome by several centuries. The architecture here is a breathtaking mix of Ancient Roman, and Baroque churches and playhouses. The atmosphere at present is heavy and coagulates with the preparation for war. Drums beating time to the soldiers march. The military here is the British redcoats and Portuguese Line Infantry in their blue tunics with white facings and red sashes, insignia and militia from Russia, the Black Watch tartan of the Highland Fusiliers and the red-and-green of Irish – a situation not unlike a keg of gunpowder on a lengthy slow fuse. The port is humming, a hive of activity, a mass of movement of men, canon and horses. Everyone, everything is heading to Porto, to wrest it from French occupiers. The Bookman requests an assignation to a British unit for the purpose of observing the oncoming battle. With reluctance Wellesley grants them attachment to the 1st Division of his own 3rd Brigade.

Deke is amazed at the helter-skelter that reigns when they get to the maritime port. Every European army on the side of the Anglo Portuguese force is represented here, he recognises them all, but does not sight at all any Green Jackets, but he figured that might have been for the best. He wondered at the Old Man’s negotiative powers that secured them pole position to record observations in the Commander-in-Chief’s own battalion no less. They travelled with the amassed army, artillery and armour toward Porto.

Together with the column they take their places, Senior trusting Deke to take down the numbers, the armies on both sides of the conflict. They approach from the East and West, with the help of resistance fighters a third of the army cross the River Douro in boats that the French occupiers think are ‘destroyed’. There are reports that the opposing Marshall is asleep at the time hostilities start proper. Artillery and mortar pound the walls of the city from across the river, whilst the defenders are busy with the invading force which crossed the river earlier, light foot infantry rush across the unguarded bridge.

There was so much to see and note, the flash of musket and rifle fire, the boom of cannons, and the steady thrum of drumming designed to invoke fear. His sharp eye took in and his mind memorised every detail in spite of his lack of depth perception. He has long since learned to live with this. In the midst of the assault on the bridge he spotted the Green Jackets, he counted seven in all. Sharp shooters all, they were there to take down officers stupid enough to stand on the ramparts of the beleaguered city. He is momentarily taken back to his first battle all those years ago. How he shivered to shut out the sounds, the sights and smells. How humanity remained unchanged. He stood in soundless shock still documenting events as they happened, as he counted, one, no … two … and a third Green Jacket, as they fell to the enemy. At fifteen he stood resolute. Just ink on paper, just ink on paper. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Wherever you go, there is war after war.”  
“I’ve counted forty eight so far.”

It seems to be a cycle with humans. Over and over – they fight. It never occurred to him to think, it was only thus - it seemed that way - because their sole purpose was to document the wars. (That there might have been other events of import occurring, that did not have anything to do with death, destruction. These were happening as well.) However in the grand scheme of things, the casualties, the logistics that Junior kept account of, these tragedies that mounted hid sinister secret meanings to the Great Game at large.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The French are routed and they beat a hasty retreat. A victory celebration is already underway. Bookman and his apprentice decide that it is best that they be on their way too, in the jubilation no one notices the two melt away, shadows before the setting sun. The make their way seaward and they board a carrack loaded with casualties headed for home, for the naval base at Portsmouth, England. 

Due to inclement weather, the seafarers take two weeks to get to Portsmouth. In that time, Bookman aids the casualties, doing what he can to ease any suffering.

Deke, with his easy-going manner, doubled up as cabin boy and medic’s assistant. He is kept busy, with the weather being what it was and the nature of their human cargo. Whilst not unfriendly he upheld his indifference throughout the journey. Finally they arrive in England. Deke could feel it in his bones, in his core that great change was afoot and this was the road he’s meant to be on from his first step through the doors of the Orphanage all those years ago, when he was an ignorant innocent. He wondered if his guardian knew what the next stage was.

They take a steam locomotive of the London & South Western Rail from Portsmouth and into Victoria Station. Bookman is on the lookout for someone who wears a white uniform belonging to an army everyone might not know of. He might be short, a disadvantage here, but he is a Bookman and his eyes are as sharp as Junior’s eye. He finds them soon enough and soon enough they find who they need for the next play in both their lives, and whether or not it turns out to be folly on their end or their end - as it were, it still remains to be seen.

Junior followed the ‘finders’ Bookman was looking for. The trail they’re taken on seems to be a strange runaround through secret tunnels, underground staircases and onto a waterway where they boarded a small boat. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Humans are really stupid. My eyes are wide open to that now.” He drawled out lazily to his master. Face slightly slack. This is the voice and the face that he is going to show to the next Commander-in-chief.

“But this next war may not go as you think, for the first time we will be soldiers - we will be chronicling from their perspective. This might be your first real trial.”

“Don’t worry Gramps, I’ll be friendly and sociable - as always.” The young man assured his teacher.

“Don’t forget that no matter which side you’re standing on your role as a Bookman is to document the true history and to not interfere. So don’t make undue trouble, Deke.”

“Deke was my 48th name remember, now I’m Lavi.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” A voice softly interrupts their exchange. “I am Komui Lee, Branch Supervisor of the European Headquarters of the Black Order.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Who are you?” A voice asks. Within his heart he replies… The one who will succeed the Bookman. 

We are the wind, going everywhere, touching everything (everyone) and feeling nothing. We keep wandering. ….

“What happens to the power of the wind when it is harnessed with nowhere to go?” Has no one sought to wonder?

~~~~~~~  
FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [ waterlit ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/waterlit/pseuds/waterlit) who read through this for me and encouraged me to post the edited version. I've been sitting on it awhile because I was uncertain of myself then I thought, "Why not?" 
> 
> If you've made it to the end. Thank you too. Thank you very much - it means quite a lot. - Zan
> 
> Once again I re-iterate, that I am no historian. Most of what's in the fic is found on the internets and changed to fit. A lot of it is made up, and made to fit. 
> 
> Happy Easter folks! - Spare a thought and eat some chocolate in honour of Bunny Lavi k'
> 
>  
> 
> ps - the 95th Rifles appear, just cos' you know Sharpe ~_^

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I'm not a historian - Almost everything that is true sounding I found on the internets, the rest I made up  
> , and even some of the true sounding stuff as well.  
> 2) Everything I found on the internets, IS NOT IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER, BECAUSE ... 48 names, 48 wars from the age of 6 to 16 ... and to chart a reasonable journey from one end of the world to the other ... I couldn't do it, I did try at first but gave up crying  
> 3) Again - everything is speculative and conjecture and because I spent time on it ... I inflict it upon the general populace - any con-crit is welcome if you wish,  
> 4) Lastly I hope at least someone somewhere enjoys this long piece of something. (ok it's long for me ^_^)  
> 5) Sparkly rainbows everyone -  
> Zan
> 
> ps - this is an edited version, I meant to only clean up some of the grammar, but it sort of grew, so I am splitting this thing into two. I hope, hope, hope that I have actually made it better. Any who remembers the original and deigns to read this again, I hope I *HAVE* made it better. - Thank you all - Zan oh and uh ... Happy Easter 2017!


End file.
